


Life After You

by OwnerOfAllTears



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Coping, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Guilt, I Just Needed To Write This, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Violence, Sadness, Survivors Guilt, Trauma, but now im sad, tom and will friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23061178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwnerOfAllTears/pseuds/OwnerOfAllTears
Summary: William returns to the 8th and must learn to live a new life after the trauma he's been through
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33
Collections: Not Just Another War Movie





	Life After You

How do you build yourself again, after you’ve been torn apart and ripped to pieces? If there are doctors for the body, are there doctors for the soul? Can your humanity be stitched, bandaged, pulled back together like your body does? Or is this pain an eternal conviction for partaking in unnecessary violence and bloodshed? Perhaps William’s soul had no redemption, and this was his penitence.

He had been a heroic soldier in a heroic mission. Some patted him in the back, telling him he should be proud of himself. He had saved lives, prevented a massacre, made his commander and country proud, and should be pleased to know a medal was on its way for him. Nothing like a medal to cheer you up.

If he was so special, if he had successfully performed such complicated task, had survived, had fulfilled his duty, and should be full of joy and pride, why did he felt empty and beaten? His chest ached, as if a gaping wound had been left where a heart should beat. He was cold, but the cold seemed to emanate from himself, as if he, William Schofield, had become a corpse. Cold as ice, with a frozen heart and void of any emotion. Not pride, not joy, not even sadness, anger or regret. Just loneliness and indifference.

Not even as he made his way back, the road forcing him to go past Ecoust and the farm, not even then he found it within his heart to cry, to mourn. The smoke rising from the rubble clouded his thoughts, the white petals from the dying trees blinding him with their brightness. His gaze was passive, almost stupid, as the twisted remains of the German front line appeared in the distance. April 6th seemed to have been a lifetime away.

Life back with his battalion seemed so foreign, so wrong. There was chattering and laughs surrounding him, people playing cards and improvising balls with anything to play. They wrote letters and journals and watched the sunset, secretly passing along a bottle of wine. They cursed out when something went wrong, laughed with joy and sighed with news of home. They were alive and could feel something; while Will couldn’t wrap himself around the concept of happiness anymore. How could one bring himself to smile when there were orphaned children starving in their hiding places and teens risking their lives in a war they couldn’t understand? How can someone believe in good while there are dozens of bodies piling up in the banks of a river, buried under tons of mud or eaten by rats?

How can one find happiness when you’ve seen the worst this world can offer?

Slowly the men from the battalion did their best to avoid him. He had become taciturn and lonely, taking the habit of wandering away from the group during nap times, away and away until his silhouette disappeared amongst the tall grass and dried up trees. Walking until Will was sure he was alone, with just his thoughts for company. Only there, isolated and safe from judgment, he allowed himself to be free. To feel. To cry. To let himself be human again, a human who cared and loved and felt pain and horror and guilt for being alive while others were not. His comrades could never see him in such state of vulnerability. They wouldn’t understand, because they didn’t know.

The others never noticed two had left and only one had come back. They didn’t wake up at night, drenched in sweat, after having dreamt of the teen they strangled to death, or the girl and the baby starving under a wrecked city. They didn’t have to run from enemies coming from all sides while unarmed and outnumbered; only illuminated by the raging fire of a church. They didn’t see the river of bodies, or had to crawl over them. They never felt the weight of 1600 lives on their shoulders. They didn’t feel their sorrow deepen while leaning against a particular tree to sleep, painfully aware of the empty patch of dirt next to them. Their pockets didn’t feel empty, having no one’s letters to keep safe. They never found themselves putting aside a part of their food rations for a partner, only to remember there was no one to feed anymore. They didn’t spend hours kneeling next to a water bucket, scrubbing their hands raw because they could still feel the blood of their friend on them. And of course not one of them gritted their teeth and squeezed their eyes shut whenever white petals came into view, bringing memories of cherry orchards and sweet smiles and blue eyes which held all the kindness in the world, even as their life faded away. They would never remember the boy whose only dying wish was for his mum to know he was not scared.

Blake. Sweet innocent Blake. This world didn’t deserve him. His heart was so pure, so big; he couldn’t wish evil on anyone, always tried to find the good within the others. Will always joked that he was too good for his own sake, and that someday his kindness would get him into trouble. But it hadn’t been trouble.

It had been death.

There was not a single day in which William didn’t blame himself. They should have run as soon as they saw the planes. He shouldn’t have listened to Blake, instead shooting the pilot there and then. He shouldn’t have left Blake alone, rather stay himself with the German. He was older, more experienced; wiser. He would have kept a bigger distance and a better eye. He should have protected him better. He should. He should. He should have done so many things differently, but he didn’t and now Tom was gone and he was left to deal with the pain. The survivor’s guilt sounded so stupid before, but now it was slowly eating him alive.

There was a war going on, and death was not foreign to him or anyone. But two deaths were never the same here. Seeing your comrades fall one by one, dying like flies, or simply disappearing under the force of a shell was a gut wrenching sight that no one could ever forget or get over from. William had lost more friends than he could keep count, with a few “lucky” exceptions of men being so badly mangled that they were shipped back home; having being rendered useless to the war. But having a friend, a close friend, a teenager friend lay in your lap as tears pooled in his eyes while he slowly bled to death, and begged you to let his mother know he was brave till the end, while also having the life of his brother on your hands...

Some things just cannot be forgotten. 

It didn’t quite become obvious at first, how much of a hole Blake had left of William’s life. But then it hit him almost daily. Whenever he was told a funny story that would have had Tom bent over with laughter. Or when they were fed and he remembered how hungry Tom always was, how much he would have enjoyed to be fed. When the sunset was particularly beautiful, or the wind blew strong and he wasn’t there to enjoy it. Whenever thunder boomed in the distance and Tom would have put up his brave facade to hide his terror. May was particularly painful, knowing there would be cherries ready to be picked back home, and no one to help Mrs. Blake. Tom would never see the cherries again.

Will didn’t know how to deal with this, how to cope with the loss. He had so many things to say to Tom. Ask how he was doing; keep him updated with news from the battalion and from home, since Mrs. Blake had been writing to him too. Tell him about the food and the sunsets and the jokes and Myrtle’s puppies. Tell him about the singing soldier and how much Joseph resembled him; about the girl with the baby. Ask him for forgiveness.

The solution came in the form of a letter. Writing down what he wanted to say to Tom, together with his signature and an envelope. A letter that would never be dispatched; and no one would ever read. The idea seemed simple and would aid Will’s sanity. It started with one long letter, but soon became part of the routine. Weekly letters to Tom, telling him about life and food and the weather, keeping out the painful details of war. Asking how he was doing, as if Lance Corporal Blake had been simply transferred to other squad, or had been sent on leave. The letters were neatly kept together with a piece of ribbon, the same ribbon used in medals, and stacked safely at the bottom of his haversack. Some letters were joyful, some hopeful and some had an undertone of longing and sadness. Many were stained with tears

The day William returned home after the end of the war, wounded and scarred and traumatized, all he had as luggage was his tobacco tin and 150 letters addressed to Thomas Blake. No one asked what they were about, or whom they were for. That was a secret between Will and Tom.

It took him nearly a year to gather the courage to visit the Blake household. He had tea with Joseph and Mrs. Blake, watching Joe’s kids run around the orchard. The sight of the pink and white petals made him bring up the letters. The regret. The guilt. He fell to his knees in front of her, begging Tom’s mother for forgiveness, for not saving her son. They both shared a quiet and much needed cry over their loss, while Mrs. Blake also swore that she didn’t hold resentment against William and thanked him for keeping Tom accompanied until his last breath. William wept quietly, his chin buried in his chest. This was as close as he’d get to closure over the hardest chapter of his life. But there was still a thing to be done

His next visit was on Tom’s birthday, the first day of May; and he brought the letters with him. They buried them in the orchard, under the biggest tree, inside a box containing also letters written by Tom’s family, per Will’s suggestion. The family, Will included, sang Happy Birthday, holding each other. On the burial site was placed a headstone William had paid for, bearing a eulogy, and the medal Tom never got to wear. God knows he deserved them all.

William finally felt happy and relieved, knowing Tom would never be forgotten, for his memory lived within their hearts.


End file.
